Kahlia Mazacalletti, 6 september 2012
The long goodbye; like taking a puff off your last cigarette
Where do all the young lovers go?
Being so lonely after the affairs of the heart end
On the turnstyle of life, round and round
Their heads spinning with the lack of desire
Felt from days gone by
Lustful dreams; broken memories
The lament of love songs still ringing in their ears
Of what was said to each other
It is a sad thing, this forlong love
The break-up of destiny
Lost forever, only to meet in a back alley street some moonlit night
Under a starry sky-why must it be so hurtful, can't I just let it go?
Move along and find another
Or was He the only man of my years?
Please tell me there is good and plenty
Do not tease me or test me; for I am heart broken
And have no love to call my own
Joe Breunig, 6 september 2012
Above us is the Celestial Lodestone,
the universal point of spiritual reference.
As a stalwart of magnetic attraction,
He constantly draws men unto Himself.
Dynamic in nature and unchanging in purpose,
His principles are adaptable for all situations.
The foundation of His Word is solid;
His Truth is filled with plenty of promise.
Raise your eyes! Look up!
He is always ready to be found;
allow His brightness to pierce the darkness
and emptiness of our earthly souls.
Jehovah desires to provide us with direction, so that…
We may reach His ultimate standard of perfection.
Author Note:
Learn more about me and my poetry at:
http://www.squidoo.com/book-isbn-1419650513/
Joe Breunig, 6 september 2012
Under the duress of the sacrificial Cross
and positioned between two thieves,
the culmination of grace for the World
was granted - via Jehovah’s heavenly reprieve.
Surrounded by the stench of death,
Christ uttered famous words of forgiveness;
enduring human suffocation with each dying breath,
His Light steadfastly opposed foreboding darkness.
His heart was forcefully punctured,
by a soldier’s upward, piercing blow.
Ripping the spear from the broken body
caused both blood and water to surprisingly flow.
Not immediately realized or understood
was the significance of His Crucifixion.
For this conciliatory offering to God
covered our sin, serving as a holy propitiation.
In plain sight, upon Golgotha’s skull hill,
hung our Savior between two thieves.
On that Good Friday He fulfilled God’s will,
before His Spirit was allowed its earthly leave.
Author Note:
Learn more about me and my poetry at:
http://www.squidoo.com/book-isbn-1419650513/
Joe Breunig, 6 september 2012
Man-made structures can’t last
against the blows of a spiritual blast.
As demonstrated at Jericho, walls tumbled down;
its destruction was truly inevitable!
For it was illegally stationed on holy ground.
Inside out, God moves on our heart from within;
subtly He motivates us to have Him purge our sin.
Against the barriers of our personal defense,
His Holy Spirit continually and lovingly flows,
easily overtaking our five, natural senses.
Like the ‘Good Samaritan’, show others God’s Love
by allowing His Light to shine - from within and above.
Is it possible that Jericho’s defeat is a just metaphor?
Whereby Jehovah’s Love does conquer all,
by breaching the stony gates… of our heart’s door.
Author Note:
Learn more about me and my poetry at:
http://www.squidoo.com/book-isbn-1419650513/
Satish Verma, 6 september 2012
Fear grips a family of words.
You are going to where you do not want
to go.
I remain worried about the unknown.
The inevitable was flowering
on dead palms.
Would you exhume the past to find out,
what the divinity has buried
along the panicles of croci?
I do not understand this war
between glaciers and guns.
Can we drink together the elixir
of death dripping from the snow peaks?
Sun was screaming from the unblooming trees.
Satish Verma
Melanie Gardiner, 6 september 2012
I'm tired,
I'm young,
I'm drowning just for fun.
Whenever I see you,
It reminds me of why I want to go,
and why I want to stay.
I've lost blood,
and that's why I acted like I was caught in mud.
I've gotten so used to pain,
it's the only thing that's keeping me sane.
It may seem like I'm tired,
and I am,
But not because I'm loosing sleep.
A towel can clean up my relief spill,
But what's the thing that won't let me kill?
Bill Cushing, 5 september 2012
Slowly circling,
the pelican
drops like a stone
into water.
Then climbing the
air, he stops, and
with a single
motion of wings,
glides on the wind.
Bill Cushing, 5 september 2012
Things did not turn out
as perfectly as we had hoped. When
the doctors
extracted him
from the womb, there he was
a twisted pretzel of
a person, this child
who was
to be
perfect,
shaking and bloody
as a wounded bird and
not much different:
from the bony shoulders,
like broken wings,
crooked arms splayed up
to the curled hands
that seemed jammed
under a quivering
chin
attached, haphazardly,
to a crooked head.
Hips
perpendicular to
a withered torso,
legs running
up the sides of a pruney chest—
all these deformities
from blood that had
clotted in the brain:
a stroke. So,
a malady
of the elderly became
his personal anomaly.
Blood soaked, crooked,
crying, and
brain damaged:
this was how we greeted
our son,
yet
from those bodily barricades
and
out of that
unquenchable panic
came
a boy who
did not interrupt a family,
did not join a family,
but who created a family.
Bill Cushing, 5 september 2012
Torchlit halls linked galleries
and ballrooms. The castle itself
linked the banks of the river
with black-and-white tiles
that felt minuets and waltzes.
Later, pawns crossed the checkerboard
that was then scuffed by
the jackboots of soldiers
of a “thousand year Reich”
that lasted only twelve—
a fraction of the fuehrer’s
promised prediction.
Paying the Loire tribute,
Cher rises in the northwest,
then flows across a plateau
to join the Yevre at Vierzon.
Eighteenth century masons
built the chateau on pilings
of a sixteenth century mill:
a castle more squat than wide.
Taking flight from former
Gothic weight, the structure
would later offer flight
to the builders' descendants.
They had no way of knowing,
these workmen who joined
two shores with stone,
what avenue they would leave.
As they built this architectural
bridge on arched columns,
they girded generations backward
and forward. They did not see
things that would be yet
still supplied a path to freedom
for their great-grandchildren’s
grandchildren.
Bill Cushing, 5 september 2012
A shape appears
and is gone,
comes into view,
disappears, until,
cresting the hill,
the spot
blotting the sun,
a cartload of hay,
takes shape.
Emerging,
the wagon,
oxen-drawn, a juggernaut pulled
by two thousand pounds,
rolls between fields--
grinding dirt,
crushing stones.
Sweating flanks
of coarse,
matted hair
cause slow,
rhythmic hammering,
dull thunder
as hooves pound earth.
The ground moves
to the sound
of these hardened
timpani.
Beast and wagon pass,
processional,
as if solemn,
and then recede
slowly
out of sight.
A wake is left--
strong pungent odor
of musk
mixed
with the sweet sharpness
of the cut stalks
being carried
to the village beyond.
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